Jeeves and the Fake Plastic Flowers
by Pjazz
Summary: Gamesmanship on the golf course leads Bertie Wooster to seek an unorthodox revenge.


**JEEVES AND THE FAKE PLASTIC FLOWERS**

A contemporary Jeeves & Wooster story

by Pjazz

2006

**T**here is no better feeling in this world or the next than walking down the

18th fairway when you're dormy. None. Perhaps the chap who's first to set foot on Mars, or the egghead who discovers the cure for the common cold will run it close, but I doubt it.

My erstwhile opponent was one Benjamin 'Whiffer' Whitford, a Drones regular and a beefy chap built along the lines of a trans-atlantic liner stood on end. Presently he wore the careworn expression of a man who has swallowed a jam sandwich, only to find it home too several wasps who only now made their presence felt in the tum. I could appreciate his discomfort. Whiffer had led by three at the turn; Bertram had been sluggish out of the blocks. But the Woosters are nothing if not dogged, and some snappy mid-irons had squared the match at the 16th. At the 17th, the previous hole, Whiffer had hooked a wild drive into the rough, and spent a fruitless 10 minutes hacking wildly at the undergrowth trying to locate his ball. We had agreed a wager of £1,000 on the outcome, and at the moment it was advantage Bertram.

"Your honour, I believe, Whiffer, old chap."

"I know whose honour it is, dash it," Whiffer responded curtly, gripping the club so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Whiffer was one of those chaps who like to talk to the ball when it is in flight, the encouraging word or sobriquet to help it on its way, as it were. He did so now.

"Sit down, blast you! Sit down, I say! Sit! Sit, dammit!"

But the ball paid no heed and flew past the pin, bounced once and plonked into the semi-rough.

I ignored Whiffer's cries of anguish and turned to Jeeves, who was caddying for me.

"What d'you think, Jeeves? 8 iron?"

"Yes, sir. Struck firmly to the heart of the green. You are dormy.A Mr Whitford is off the green in two."

I nodded agreement. Two minds as one. It was a pleasing notion for relations between us had been somewhat strained these past days. Jeeves wanted to visit Scotland, where he enjoyed fell-walking o'er hill and glen, while Bertram preferred the bright lights of the old metrop. The young master's views prevailled, of course. But it was good to see Jeeves rallying round in this manner. The feudal spirit, and all that.

I gave the club a preliminary waggle and addressed the ball. Then, as the club was at the apex of the backswing, Whiffer coughed. It wasn't a loud cough as coughs go, but at the moment of intense concentration it sounded to me like a gas explosion. I sliced the ball into the greenside bunker.

"Frightfully sorry, old chap," Whiffer said, not looking the least sorry. "Bit of a frog in the throat. Must be the dry summer we're having."

"Oh really?" I replied. And I meant it to sting.

I strode forward to inspect the damage. It was grave. The ball was plugged high on the lip. Tiger Woods might've viewed the prospect with equanimity, but not Bertram. I would have the devil of a job getting it out, let alone close.

I waded into the sand. Waggled my sand-wedge, twisted my feet to improve my stance. Waggle and twist. Twist and waggle.

"When you're ready, Wooster," complained Whiffer. "I'd like to be done before Christmas."

I ignored the fellow and hit and hoped. And dash it all if it didn't come off! The ball made a smooth parabola through the air, hit the front apron of the green and rolled to within a yard of the hole. Who says you can't play great golf with your eyes closed?

"Well played, sir," said Jeeves.

"Thank you, Jeeves. The trick was keeping the wrists firm yet pliable. And the knees--"

"Yes, yes, Wooster. Save it for your memoirs." Whiffer said impatiently.

I stood and watched as Whiffer prepared for his chip shot. He had a decent short game, courtesy no doubt of countless hours at the Drones spent chipping balls into upturned top hats. The ball flew off his blade and made a bee-line for the hole, running out of puff just six inches from the cup.

"Gimme?"

I nodded. A six inch putt is missable but I was no sadist.

"Well, Wooster. This is it, eh? Hole your putt and the match is yours."

"Quite."

"A thousand pounds riding on it, Wooster. It all boils down to this.

"Quite."

"I'm just saying, this is not a moment for faint hearts. Everything rests on your putt. A thousand pounds. So, no pressure, eh? No pressure."

It's all very well to tell a chap 'no pressure', quite another to stop that chap from feeling it. My legs felt as though someone had drained them of blood. While the head felt as hollow as a balloon. Whiffer's frog in the throat seemed to have migrated to mine, and brought some amphibious chums along for company. I clasped and reclasped the club until finally I brought the Wooster courage to the sticking point, as I've heard Jeeves describe it. The putt was a little right to left. I aimed at the right lip and pulled the trigger.

And missed by a hairsbreadth.

"Oh jolly bad luck! My hole in four. Match all-square. Good game, Wooster. Must do it again sometime."

And with these weasel words old Whiffer high-fived his caddy and strode briskly toward the clubhouse.

"Most disappointing, sir," Jeeves commiserated.

"Most, Jeeves. I could almost feel that thousand pounds in my top pocket."

"I can well imagine, sir. It must have seemed so close that you could hardly fail to grasp it."

"Well said, Jeeves. Your own?"

"No, sir. It is a quote from _'The Great Gatsby',_ a novel by the american writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. The full passage is : 'He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close he could hardly fail to grasp it.'"

"Blue lawn? Why blue? A mishap with the weedkiller?"

"Blue lawn alludes to the sea off Cope Cod, sir, on the Northeastern seaboard of America, where much of the novel is set. Fitzgerald also urges the reader to 'run faster, stretch out our arms further...to beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.'"

"I wouldn't mind being borne back ceaselessly into the past, Jeeves. I'd hit that last putt with a lot less borrow."

"As you say, sir."

"One doesn't like to whinge, Jeeves, but if it hadn't been for that cough interrupting my swing on the last I would have won easily."

"Yes, sir. Mr Whitford does like to stretch the spirit of the game to its uttermost. If you recall, on the 3rd hole Mr Whitford jangled loose change in his pocket as you prepared to putt. On the 5th he hummed the theme tune from 'Annie' while you addressed a fairway iron. On the 10th, 12th and 15th he carelessly walked on your putting line."

"Good heavens, Jeeves. Are you accusing Mr Whitford of cheating?"

"No, sir. Merely of gamesmanship unbecoming a gentleman. If that is all, sir. I will stow the clubs in the car and meet you there."

Jeeves went toward the carpark and I headed for the locker room. The more I thought about it the more indignation rose in the Wooster gullet. There were plenty of niggling little things Whiffer had done, culminating in the cough and the blatant attempt to put me off at the last. The fellow was an absolute wash out.

Normally after a round I grab a snooterful at the 19th, but today I wasn't in the mood. Even less so when I saw old Whiffer at the bar, playing the hale fellow well-met with his golfing cronies. Doubtless he was regaling them with tales of how he'd snootered Bertram. It would do no harm at all to think of a way putting one over on the fellow, to teach him a bally lesson.

The opportunity came sooner than I might've hoped. Crossing the carpark I spotted Whiffer's car. He drove a foreign model, a Maseratti or Lamber-gatti or Ferra-thingy - I'm not terribly au fait with foreign motors, preferring to fly the flag and drive a good old British Bentley. I bent down and plucked a hankerchief from my pocket. I began stuffing it into the car's exhaust pipe. This was a trick I'd learnt at the Drones. You block off the exhaust pipe and the car won't start. The poor chump driving checks everywhere for the prob. Out of petrol? Plugs out of sync? Big end playing up? Little end playing up? Then finally, when he's in such a panic he'll likely pop, you nonchalently stroll by and point out the problem.

Just as I was putting the finishing touches to this scheme, I heard heavy boots crunch the gravel behind me. And the voice of doom said:

"And what's all this then?"

I turned to see a large wall of blue serge uniform topped by a familiar looking helmet. I was in the presence of the local constabulary.

"You come on up out of there."

I came on up out of there.

The policeman bent and extracted my handkerchief from Whiffer's exhaust pipe.

"Tampering with a motor vehicle, eh? That's a serious offence. Name?"

"Wooster, constable. But look here I---"

"Can you spell that?"

It seemed an odd request, but I obliged.

"T-H-A-T."

The copper flushed a deep maroon.

"Are you taking the mick? Spell Wooster."

I did so. He wrote it down in a small notebook.

"Occupation?"

"Sorry?"

"Work. What's your job?"

To tell the truth I hadn't the foggiest notion. I knew what the words implied, of course. I just didn't see how they related to me. Fortunately, a familar voice joined our synod.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance, constable?", said Jeeves respectfully.

"Who are you?"

"I am Mr Wooster's personal gentleman."

"Come again?"

"His personal gentleman."

"His butler, you mean?"

"Among other duties, yes, constable."

"What's this joker do for a living?"

"Mr Wooster is a Name in the City."

"What's that when it's at home?"

Again I was at a complete loss. Yonks ago when I came down from Oxford, a pal had suggested I become a Name. It seemed a decent wheeze and I signed on the dotted. A fair chunk of moolah landed in the Wooster bank account every month, and everything was hunky-dory as far as Bertram was concerned. Fortunately, Jeeves was better informed.

"Mr Wooster is in Insurance, constable."

"Insurance? Right. Now we're getting somewhere."

Indeed. You live and learn. Now the copper touched on what was the crux of the matter - viz. the hanky in the exhaust pipe.

"Perhaps Mr Wooster was cleaning it, constable," Jeeves suggested.

"Cleaning it? Is it his car?"

"No, constable. It belongs to close friend. Perhaps Mr Wooster was merely being neighbourly."

"Coo, I've heard some fairy tales in my time, but this takes the biscuit!"

"Note the way Mr Wooster is dressed, constable."

He gave my costume the once over, then delivered his fashion critique.

"LIke a ponce, you mean?"

"No, constable. The neatly starched cuffs, the well-cut jacket, the oxford double-knot tie. Mr Wooster hates things to be out of place. A dirty exhaust pipe on a friend's car would have offended his acute sensibilities."

The rozzer looked like he was about to tell Jeeves where he could stick his acute sensibilities, when the walkie-talkie pinned to his tunic crackled into life.

"Parple-parple-parple-parp-parp?" it went.

The constable depressed the send button.

"Roger, dispatch.Go ahead"

"Parple-parple-parple-parp. Parple-parple-parp-parp-parp!"

It sounded like gibberish to my ears. But the constable seemed to get the gist.

"Roger, dispatch. I copy."

"Parple-parple-parp-parp?"

"Roger. Over and out."

"Parp-parp!"

"It's your lucky day, sunshine. A lorry's jack-knifed in the High Street. All available units to attend ASAP. So I'm letting you go with a warning. Watch your bleedin' step. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good."

He biffed off. Jeeves and I hurried over to the Bentley and hauled anchor ourselves, careful to avoid the High Street which was likely to be a tad busy. It had been a close call, but thanks to Jeeves Bertram had dodged the chain-gang.

That weekend I took myself off to Ascot for the racing. If there's one thing I like just as much as a good round of golf it is to spend an afternoon at the track watching tiny chaps in colourful silks chivvying horseflesh. The Sport of Kings, dash it all!

I was making my way to a seat in the stands when a shrill whistle rang out and I spied two pairs of arms waving me over. It was my old pals Bingo Little and Bobbie Wickham. I joined them.

"Hullo, Bingo. Hullo, Bobbie. Fancy seeing you here."

"Where d'you expect us to watch the horse racing, you chump - Wimbledon?"

"Quite. I say, Bobbie, that's a spiffing dress."

It was a corker. An off the shoulder number in some shimmery material that hugged Bobbie's curves in all the right places. I stifled a sudden urge to howl at the moon.

"Well put your tongue back in your head, Bertie. I don't want you slobbering all over it," Bobbie chided. "It's pure silk. Cost a packet."

"Right ho. Any luck, Bingo?"

"Yes. All of it bad. I backed a horse in the last race that was obviously here on a sabbatical from the knackers yard. Came last by several lengths."

Bobbie smiled mischevously. "I say, Bertie, I heard about your run in with the rozzers. Honestly, a hanky in the exhaust. I was pulling that stunt in kindergarten. Gosh, I bet you looked a priceless ass when the policeman felt your collar!"

I shuddered. The memory was all too recent.

"What's all this?" Bingo asked clearly in the dark. I explained the circs.

"Golly. Whiffer coughed on your backswing? What a cad."

"An absolute bounder," I agreed.

"A blot on the landscape. I once played billiards with him at the Drones. Best of 10 frames. Loser bought the winner a case of champers. I was going great guns when Whiffer gave me what I thought was a glass of refreshing orange juice. He'd spiked it with vodka. I got so squiffy I could barely hold the cue. And it was dashed expensive champagne."

"The man's a menace to fair-minded chaps everywhere."

"You were right to try and clip his wings, Bertie. Any fresh ideas?"

I confessed nothing had suggested itself. "Jeeves advises studying the psychology of the individual. His likes and dislikes and so forth, and take it from there."

"Oh I can tell you what old Whiffer likes - gardening." said Bobbie.

"Gardening? Really? Funny, I can't see old Whiffer soiling the toil - er, toiling the soil."

"Oh he leaves the heavy stuff to the hired help. But he's very proud of his windowboxes."

"Windowboxes, you say?"

"Yes. Boxes perched on windowsills with flowers in them."

"I'm familiar with the concept."

"In fact I can think of a super scheme to put the wind up old Whiffer, results guaranteed."

Bingo and I waiting agog for Bobbie to elucidate. But she was busy peering at the throng through a small pair of binoculars.

"I say, look at Cecilia Darlaston-Jones. She's overdone the sunbed, the silly moose. She's positively orange! Gosh, is Angela Smith-Smithers wearing a split-skirt? With her legs? She looks like a carthorse!"

"Quite. But getting back to--"

But Bobbie wasn't finished. There were further comments directed at an Ariadne Something-Something, who apparently had 'calves like a heffer'; numerous hats were dismissed as 'too ghastly for words'; and someone named Christabel Smythe-Smithers was judged to have 'VPL you could see from orbit'. Finally the girlish banter ran its course and Bertram got a word in edgeways.

"You were saying, Bobbie - about old Whiffer?"

"What? Oh yes. You nobble his windowboxes. Replace the flowers with fake plastic ones. He hates the artificial type. A neighbour once had some hanging baskets with plastic flowers. Whiffer went ballistic. Complained to the council and wrote strongly worded letters to the local rag."

I confess this was a side of Whiffer I had hithertoo not suspected. The man who was a hellhound on the golf course, practically stealing a chaps fairly won thousand pounds, yes. The urban horticulturist Whiffer who held antidiluvian views on man-made fibres was a complete revelation.

"Of course, you'd never manage to carry out such a juicy scheme, Bertie. Look at the hash you made of the exhaust pipe gag.

I bridled somewhat. "That was entirely due to unforeseen circs. - viz. a bally great copper lurking in the undergrowth."

"Leave it to Jeeves, Bertie. I would," advised Bingo.

I drew myself to my full height, which admittedly wasn't much since I was sitting down. I resented this opinion, far too widespread for my liking, that _sans _Jeeves Bertram was a mere cypher, an addendum, a bally afterthought who couldn't be entrusted with the simplest of wheezes. It was time to assert myself.

"Jeeves will not be required," I stated firmly, with a disdainful flick of the wrist. "I will handle the entire thing myself. And it will run like clockwork. Now, young Bobbie, kindly bung the details by me again."

"First buy some fake plastic flowers. Garage forecourts are a good place. You can get some really foul ones there."

"One, fake plastic flowers, the purchase of. Got it."

"Then nip round to Whiffer's after lights out. Say around midnight. He lives at No.3 Nelson Crescent, Belgravia."

I made a note of the address on the back of my racing programme.

"Next, hoick the real flowers out and replace with the fakes."

"Right. Hoick and replace."

"Then retire to a safe distance and watch the fireworks go off."

"Fireworks? You mean rockets and Roman Candles?" I pursed the lips dubiously. I hadn't realised pyrotechnics would be involved.

"No, you silly ass. Check out old Whiffer's reaction. It's a moot point he doesn't just drop dead from a heart attack."

Bobbie laughed with girlish enthusiasm. It would've been impolite not to have joined in.

Ere' long, I returned to the flat and put Bobbie's scheme before Jeeves. I hadn't expected him to turn cartwheels at the news and he didn't disappoint.

"Indeed, sir. Might I say, Miss Wickham, while an admirable young lady--"

"You should have seen the dress she was wearing, Jeeves. Men of lesser mettle than I had to be revived with oxygen and strong smelling salts. It was a wonder she wasn't arrested for exposure."

"As you say, sir. However, Miss Wickham remains a young lady with a rash and impulsive nature. I cannot--"

"But don't you see, Jeeves," I interjected. "A rash and impulsive nature is precisely what is needed. Consider - would the Prime Minister consult Miss Wickham for a nifty foreign policy for the Middle East?"

"Hardly, sir."

"Or the President of America request Miss Wickham to think of a plan to snooter the Muslim hordes?"

"The contingency is remote, sir."

"Quite. But a plan of attack to put the fizz up old Whiffer and Bobbie Wickham's your man - er, woman, rather. You should have heard the vitriol she was handing out to her gal pals at Ascot, Jeeves. Pure acid drops. She lives and breathes girlish malice 24/7. If Machiavelli had met Bobbie Wickham he'd have given up the day job and become a vicar, knowing he had met his match."

"A most persuasive argument, sir. But--"

I raised an imperious hand. "But me no buts, Jeeves. I regard Miss Wickham's scheme to be the fruitiest this side of Agincourt, and I intend to follow it to the letter."

"Very good, sir."

"You can have the rest of the evening off. Attend a picture show. Or arrange your stamp collection. I shall have no further need for your services."

"Very good, sir."

And that I think you'll agree was telling him.

I popped out to purchase the fake plastic flowers. I bought great bunches of the stuff in the most lurid colours imaginable. Some had glitters on them; others were advertised to glow in the dark. I even bought some childrens whirligigs on sticks which spun around in the slightest breeze. Not strictly flora granted, but they added to the general hideousness. Collectively they looked about as aesthtically pleasing as a night out in Blackpool.

As I waiting for darkness to fall further inspiration struck. I hurried to Jeeves's pantry where he keeps all the household items and borrowed a tin of black boot polish. I had seen a war film once where British commandos had covered their faces camouflage paint to better blend into the surroundings. I liberally smeared a good dollup of boot polish over my face. If it was good enough for the Royal Marines, it was good enough for Bertram.

Skulking about the dark streets of the old metropolis at midnight clutching a bunch of fake plastic flowers is not Bertram Wooster's natural mileu. A day at the Races; a night at the Opera; even an afternoon at the Drones flicking playing cards into an upturned bowler hat, absolutely. But I confess at that moment the legs had a rather rubbery feel to them as if the muscles had been removed and replaced with spaghetti. I suppose a cat burgler would take it all in his stride; all part of a dishonest nights work. But not Bertam. I was all of a-twitter.

Nelson Crescent, Belgravia turned out to be a cul-de-sac of large town houses, shaded by a canopy of mature Beech trees. This was a bit of bunce since it meant I was less likely to be observed by the local populace. I parked the Bentley round the corner and set to the task. As Shakespeare said, 'if it t'were done 'tis well it t'were done quickly'. Or was it Jeffrey Archer? I'm always getting those two muddled up. I'd have to check with Jeeves.

Whiffer's place, No.3, was the most impressive of the lot. It boasted 4 large windowboxes all stuffed to the brim with flowers blooming their little hearts out. I began hoiking and relacing as per Bobbie's instructions. It didn't take long and I was soon putting the finishing touches to the final windowbox when I suddenly found myself illuminated by torchlight. A familiar refrain came out of the gloom.

"And what's all this then?"

Once again Bertram was in the presence of the local constabulary.

"You come on out of there."

I knew the drill. I came on out of there.

This copper wasn't the same species I'd met previously, though he was built along similar lines: tall, beefy and betopped by a dome-like helmet. An extra stripe or two on his sleeve implied I was in the presence of the more senior ranks. I supppose you need a certain maturity to patrol the streets of London after dark, and the force had not sent a boy to do a man's job.

"Oh. Uh. Hullo, officer. Fine evening. Spot of rain later perhaps, eh?"

But the Wooster _sangfroid _did not deflect the Law. Sherlock Holmes could not have been more eagle-eyed.

"What's that you're carrying?"

"Fake plastic flowers, officer."

"Ho! Stole 'em, did you?"

"Oh no, officer. You see---"

"What's that on your face? Is it boot polish?"

A Wooster is never afraid to admit to his mistakes. And I could see now that coating the old fizzog with boot polish was an absolute howler of the first order. While it may be _de rigeur _for a Royal Marine in a warzone, it was not the same for a gentleman of leisure at night in the leafy environs of Belgravia. It would require all of my wit and intellect to concoct a reasonable explanation. I gave it a bash.

"Er..."

Not good, of course. I further creased the brow and brought all the renowned Wooster accuity to bear.

"Um..."

I foresaw that this one syllable business was unlikely to allay the copper's suspicions, but it was the best I could manage under the circs. It seemed a lengthy visit to the local Bastille would be next on the evening's agenda, when a familiar voice pierced the air.

"Oh you've found him? Oh well done, officer. I was becoming quite concerned."

The copper's torch turned to illuminate Jeeves, who blinked owlishly in the spotlight. My spirits rose somewhat. If the man had had a fish supper to fortify those stupendous brain cells, washed down with a glass or two of fish liver oil, then Bertram may yet be spared the Gulag.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Jeeves, officer. From the Institute of Psychological Disorders."

"Psycholog--You mean the loony bin?"

"That is a somewhat dated and derogatory term, officer. We prefer Institute of Psychological Disorders. Or IPD for short."

"And this bloke's one of your nutters, is he?"

"Again, officer, that is a somewhat defamatory term. We prefer 'mentally challenged'."

"Hmm. Only some woman telephoned the station saying there was some funny business going on in Nelson Crescent. Why's he got boot polish on his face?"

"For disguise, I would imagine, officer. Mr Wooster escaped during a shift change by impersonating an orderly. The orderly was of Jamaican descent."

"And the bunch of plastic flowers?"

"Possibly Mr Wooster heard voices in his head, officer. It is a common malady."

"Voices in his head? He's not violent, is he?"

"Oh no, officer. However, if startled he is prone to defecate."

"Defecate?"

"Yes, officer."

"Poop himself, you mean?"

"If you prefer the vernacular, officer."

The copper took a step back. "He's not going to poop now, is he?"

"It is hard to tell, officer."

"Only my missus washes my uniform. She won't be too pleased if I go home smelling of---"

"I quite understand, officer. Perhaps the best course of action would be for me to escort Mr Wooster back to the Institute?"

"Good idea."

The copper spoke to me. He did so in a slow, deliberate voice, as if addressing a retarded 5 year old.

"You go with the nice man, eh, mate? He'll tuck you up in a nice warm bed. No need to go poopsies."

Dashed embarrassing for a gentleman of my sensibilities of course. But a Wooster knows when to go with the flow. I nodded meekly and followed Jeeves.

It was only when Jeeves and I were back in the Bentley and I was putting some serious m.p.h. between self and blighted Nelson Crescent that I regained the power of speech.

"Jeeves, you are a wonder! But for your sagacity I would be undergoing some serious interrogation down at the Station about now. Bamboo shoots under the fingernails I would imagine."

"I am glad to be of assistance, sir. Careful, sir, a rather tight bend ahead."

I eased off the gas a tad. "But Jeeves, how did you know where I was? I gave you the evening off."

"Shortly after you left the flat, sir, Miss Wickham phoned desiring speech with you. When I informed her you were not at home she replied, and I quote, sir - 'I bet he's round Nelson Crescent. The poor chump fell for it.' I thought as Miss Wickham was involved it might be judicious to follow you."

"You thought right, Jeeves. That's twice this week Bertram's had his collar felt by the Boys in Blue. Dashed unpleasant it is too."

"Quite, sir."

"Still, one bright spot in the whole ghastly imbroglio is I managed to snooter old Whiffer. He'll get quite a shock when he wakes in the morning and sees what I've done, eh, Jeeves?"

"I doubt it, sir."

"Eh? But his windowboxes are absolutely stuffed with fake plastic flowers. Old Whiffer'll be sick as the proverbial parrot."

"That is not Mr Whitford's house, sir."

The world seemed to have tilted on its axis and was trying to fling Bertram off into the void.

"What! Not his house?"

"No,sir. The property belongs to a Lord Winstanley."

"Never heard of him."

"There is no reson you should, sir. However, Lord Winstanley happens to be the step-father of Miss Wickham."

"Good lord. That's an incredible coincidence, when it was young Bobbie who thought up the scheme in the first place. What are the odds?"

"Astronomical, sir. But it was not coincidence. Miss Wickham deliberately misled you."

I confess this shook me to the core. Now I knew how Julius Caesar must have felt when his pals from the Senate inserted their fish knives into his fleshy parts. Et tu, Brutus, just about summed it up.

"But why should she do such a thing? Girlish whim?"

"No,sir. I have learnt from my Junior Ganymede contacts that Miss Wickham holds a grudge against her stepfather. Miss Wickham wishes to holiday in Ibiza."

"Ibiza?"

"Yes, sir. Ibiza is a small island off the coast of Spain. 'Clubbing' in the modern idiom. Lord Winstanley refused to divulge the necessary funds, stating it was a frivolous waste of time and money. Miss Wickham was somewhat piqued by his attitude, going so far as to call his Lordship an 'old fuddy-duddy'."

"So she decided to cock a snook at her step-pop through me?"

"It appears so, sir."

"I was her patsy?"

"Yes, sir."

"The fall guy?"

"Yes, sir."

"The bally stooge, eh?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. I believe it was Miss Wickham who called the police station suggesting a malfeasence at Nelson Crescent in order to allay any suspicion of her involvment.His Lordship is a former magistrate"

"I say, Jeeves, d'you suppose this Lord Winstanley chap will mind my rearranging his windowboxes?"

"Almost certainly, sir. Lord Winstanley is President of the Belgravia Garden Club and a prominent member of the Royal Horticultural Society."

"So he's likely to be a tad miffed?"

"Very probably, sir. There is another aspect to the matter. Lord Winstanley is a close friend of Mrs. Spencer-Gregson."

"He's pals with Aunt Agatha? Great Scott, Jeeves! This opens up another can of worms. If it comes out that I'm the mastermind behind the Belgravia Windowbox Outrage..."

"There may well be dire consequences, sir."

"Dire is the_ mot juste._ There's only one thing for it. As soon as I've washed this boot polish off my face we'll catch the night boat and head west. I want at least half a continent between self and the Dragon in human form."

"I'm afraid it is not boot polish on your face, sir."

"No? Then what the devil is it?"

"Blacking, sir. A tar-like substance I use to stain the front doorstep. You must have inadvertently confused the two."

"And soap and water won't shift it?"

"Not for some considerable time, sir."

"How considerable?"

"I would estimate at least two weeks, sir."

"Two weeks!" I blanched. Or at least I would have if I hadn't had blacking all over my face. "But I can't possibly be seen by society looking like this. A pale Bertram, yes. A Bertram with a light tan, by all means. But a Bertram who resembles a member of the Four Tops singing troupe, absolutely not. Eyebrows would be raised, Jeeves. Fingers pointed. Scorn and ridicule would ensue."

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"And I can't go abroad. I know foreigners think we English are eccentric, but this might be stretching it a bit."

"Might I suggest Scotland, sir. I rent a cottage there that is far from the madding crowd. It is both secluded and private. You would be unlikely to encounter a single soul."

"Hmm. Scotland. What you say interests me strangely, Jeeves. Not a soul, you say? No crowd, madding or otherwise?"

"No, sir. Just the heather, the glen and the lochs."

"Sounds just the ticket, Jeeves. How soon can we leave?"

"If you take the next exit lane north, sir, we could be there in time for breakfast."

"Right ho, Jeeves. And who knows? I might bump into the Loch Ness monster. I'd give Nessie quite a shock looking like this, eh, what?"

"I imagine you would, sir. I imagine you would."

**THE END**

**AUTHORS NOTE**

This is my fourth contemporary Jeeves and Wooster short story. The others can also be found on site.

This is also the third appearance of Bobbie Wickham, possibly my favourite minor character in the Wodehouse canon. I picture her as looking like the model Kelly Brook, only with red hair and about a 100 extra IQ points - sorry, Kelly!

As ever, feel free to contact me at my eddress, or leave a review here on site. All comments are much appreciated.

Cheers, then.

**PJ**


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